It was a day like today; the day he died. Crisp underfoot, and dragon’s breath left trailing in one’s wake. We drove to the hospital in silence – there was nothing left to say – to hold a christening amid the tubes and the wires and the perspex cribs. Holy water administered from a bottle; a hospital chaplain accustomed to parents weeping through the service.
We went outside afterwards. Stood in the car park gulping lungfuls of cold air. Looking at each other, unable to find the words to explain this nightmare in which we had woken. Bracing ourselves for what had to be done.
And then the goodbye. The quiet room set aside for bad news, with its box of tissues and helpful leaflets. An hour – or was it two? – reading bedtime stories and pretending the breaths he took were not his last.
It was dark when we came home; few cars on the road. As we drove through Oxfordshire we came across a deer in the road; too badly hurt to live, but fighting to try. Limbs flailing, lungs heaving. Driving away seemed impossible; hastening her departure equally so. And so we sat in the moonlight and waited with her until she was quiet and still.
Eight years is a long time, and so much of the pain has dulled. But that day – this day – plays out in sharp relief against the blur of grief that has formed the backdrop to our lives since then. The last day with my son. The day that changed everything.